Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

It’s been the king and queen of days, but now its reign | is almost over | Too busy to come to terms | with anything | I’ve drifted through life | secretly idle | accomplishing nothing | though on this king and queen of days, it seems | a wonderful nothing | replete | with perfect details | bugs like jewels | ochre spotted petals and orange pistils | the sound of your helpless laughter | over some stupid joke of mine, it is all | in the timing | Now it’s the hour of the axe and the scaffold | the lopping off heads | the rise of the mass | We’ll slip out, and join the beggars | the long queues of us | the lazy and the fraudulent, the sick and the weak, the | workshy | And I suspect the end will be | superbly bathetic | a flump and a sigh | the forget, the forget… | Cold will come | Shadows will come

Breaking into a bank | of cloud | The journey dissipates our past | the destination looms like another chance | is it? | We have somehow happened on | end days | the rising, the rapture | the numbed | hours of the hospital | white light of the clinic and the camera, no | purple flush of sea anemones, inane | commute of translucent jellyfish across | miles and miles of mindless ocean… | Unwittingly, we’ve seen | the great peak has passed | the city has fallen, but the forest has not yet | arrived | They should have | cut off our heads | why didn’t they? | We go our separate ways | and evening comes on, the sun | gives a longer lease to the shadows | Whisper in my ear | Say nothing, sweetly, gently, I just want | to feel your breath against my skin | Shall we talk about the lilies and the emeralds? | Just speak, and breathe and let me | feel we are still close… | No, I’ll | speak about the everything, the all, the whole | shooting match | the heights, the summits, the royal | Yes, do, it’s the same | just one of the meetings | on the day we met | And the treasure? The inexhaustible?… | No. I forget. I forget.

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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I knew it was a tragedy, but nothing would form in my head | People used that expression, It seemed like an eternity | I wondered how they knew? | There were the small, neat, blank steps of knowledge | the descent into the pool | things packed in boxes as you might | on moving apartment | the body swelling and vanishing, swelling and vanishing | as I thought deeply or grew distracted — the pulse of the green light | at the end of the jetty in Peach Tree Bay | and the darkness it put out into: such a darkness, and the way | darkness connects to darkness | filling in the breakages | building a kind of non-map | to plan our non-journeys, of which | there are more and more each day | and your fingers accidentally | switched the phone to Airplane Mode | — just such things, and the turquoise coral | Routines would take the place | of the living we’d intended | we’d make small modifications to the design | endlessly perfecting a prototype we would never | as it turned out | bring to production | Then there were the angles again | the pristine vacuity | of our new ignorance | and the point the road branches into sloth or shock | an eternal | lack of return | Building walls to hold the walls in place | mute, a long while | staring at the apricots in their plastic punnet | it was up to you | to drag the planet into its fresh alignment | with the sun | but by then | the truth had appeared | cold and neat as a cube | of ice | faintly alien | and we had to choose | how to disregard it | The girl in the next seat | was Japanese, she said | her name was Shiori | precisely just such information | and the dry sticks which break against | the rings of Saturn | shattering the leaves as fine and thin | as moths’ wings | In the evening, earlier than we meant | we tipped the glaciers and the sulphur and the lakes | into sleep | that was what we tried to call | our structure, our stability | Her not coming | came again and again like waves | and I needed to make do | with darkness, which was traditional | And from that darkness, her not coming | came to me, at last — but not the only last, I know — and it seemed | like an eternity

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Very gradually, it dawned on us | that things were not going to turn out | as we wanted | Dreamed of being architects or foreign | Dreamed of not hurting people | We were drawn to the derelict buildings, the remains of industrial giants | where they made cars or tools or wove textiles | now their floors | a blizzard of rubbish | But in between | we used to hang out at the river | where the rich kids went to pretend to be poor kids | We’d feel that sparkling vapour in our hearts | The white, cool, bittersweet thrill | The time — the time always short, but meaningful | and the drummer is giving it some | In our hand-me-down boots | we jumped in the snow by the railway tracks | Our epics were local, private, oddly throwaway | but no less epic for that — the twist of sycamore seeds into the drained pool, the first bourbon | the first time we heard Ornette | We knew we lived on islands | vanishing slowly under the sea | and it should have been desperate and futile | but somehow it wasn’t | we were okay | we’d survive, kinda | there would be boats | and higher land | in the meantime | a stillness under lamps with the sewing machine | and the papery flicker of moths | the scent of mother’s Dubonnet | were masterpieces of living | and we guessed they were important | because the artists so loved them | and nothing could be done to save them | they were too precious | And the clever kids | thought they’d get away | but they never did | and they never quite | saw how they were stupid | and I’m glad | who needs more pain in their life? | We each need | just exactly the right | amount of pain | otherwise | we’d never feel melancholy | As the quietness heightens | at night or on very calm days | the fridge speaks of pharaohs | the sheets make shapes | for languid bodies | stretched out | heads | spilling odd thoughts | was this, after all, what we’d asked for? | The fingernails, clipped from you | the moustache of milk | and the small gasp | of pleasure and lack of air | as you put the glass down | the stetson made of golden felt | Going away to school | Believing in much more | than the forgotten dead | the clubs we went to | the ties we severed | the dude | the Chevrolet | the beat-matching | Being new | with the brave jump | as the roads taught us | with all that was left | moving forward | with only the future, forever

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

The suitcases, which became too heavy to drag | The road with a rotting calm, when it is quiet at night, under the streetlamps | Up in the mountains, the populations grow old, they will find a way | No one means for it to end like this, in the brightly lit car-park | below the BUDGET MEATS sign | all the vodka we drank | the tenderness we sought | the caresses dry like ink | on certain words | they are never beautiful anymore | and we don’t want to | caress anymore | They will find a way, they will move on, or stay, like those ageing folk up in the mountains | their children having left for the city | and a better life | Or lose their country and give up | With the translucence of vodka | straight, the chatter of ice | the arguments about the midfield and the wings | the small delves around his wrist | my fingertips explore | leading to the beach | the child’s pink seahorse and her tongue stained | orange from her lolly | and further off, later, the incessant traffic on the motorway | a desolate sound | a lobotomised, voracious grind | and yet it is only | people finding their way | he doesn’t understand why I find it so sad | And if it ends like this | she will have no complaints | they will not call me | and they’ll never leave the mountains now | and you will rest your head against my head | with the beauty of the truly lost | but burn like most, and like no one | we won’t flee the homeland | they won’t wave their magic wands | we won’t count | we will not stay to understand | we will not burn like Mitterand

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

I am waiting for you in the last warm day | of summer | We can say goodbye to reasons | motives | choice | even history | there’s just waiting | I suppose it is a kind of exhaustion | and a warm day | and what comes afterwards | Of course, I add things in | the white coffee cups, the white saucers, the books, the traffic’s grind and tide, sirens of ambulances on Hills Road | the fluid parley of sunshine and shadows | the soul | the spirit | the big things and the little things | I suppose, after all, it is a kind of choice | but really, deep down, there’s just this sublime, trivial, rather beautiful | emptiness between | you and I | we’ll call it waiting | and the flies, too | And the girls at the next table are singing Maryland and Massachusetts, good old Michigan | the last warm day of summer | laps over them | washes away a little more of their young lives | towards autumn, towards my thoughts, and so | by graceful laws | of the intangible | towards you | They don’t realise it, but I guess it is history, I guess it is love, the reason | I’m waiting here by the road | and my thoughts drift like the last | snowflakes to the avalanche | You’re not coming, I know | but maybe someone is coming | and they will do | so we can be relieved | of this curious duty | and you can cease | not coming, and I can cease | waiting for you not to come | and the last warm day of summer can be passed on | to people who sing, and care, for whom it isn’t | too late | Or do you really have a different plan? | I can half hear you saying | plaintively, over the phone: I told you I was coming | I told you! | Why didn’t you | wait?


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

They describe terrible events, people talk about words | She doesn’t look like her eyes are connected to thoughts, but I guess they must be? | and her thoughts are connected to who knows what? | The wind blows hundreds in furling and unfurling crowds, they peel off | some ascend | they sit in offices | make love in their own special place | the storm | never mistakes them for opponents, it works at the levels of atoms and nothing | It is your skin comes off at the appropriate moment, later the bones | “Wow, it was such | a great feeling, you know?” Ray said | Then the fire re-arranges the atoms, how energy is deployed | some end among trees, the hospitals bulge | They go further out, but there’s no escape | In the end, it gets very pure, like an idea in the desert

Their useless bones can fill a factory | but the sacred bones, we worship | Meagre and jaundiced, even for ghosts | they scratch around | trying to find their hair | their violins and cases | They are no fun, so we forget them | we can’t help it | the gunships clutter up those night skies | some didn’t even realise | it was time to fly | She comes hard | bolting against the headboard | gobbling down a rarefied air | letting out a chain of pearls | long gaps in the silver thread | slower and slower | smaller and smaller | and the ogre groans | his godlike violence | spun like candyfloss into a feathery ache | the sort | young people get before they can understand | what is happening to them | Shovel them back into piles | masses of them | keep the volume up | don’t listen to the old sounds | coming from the warehouses | the sheds | the tents | Mist, softer than a baby’s sleeping breathing | tender as first-hour petals | we collect our footsteps like precious jewels | picking them up on the shallow dunes | beside the hush, hush of | lapping water | Whole city | slips down to a strip of ignited magnesium, flares | super-white before the chars and ashes | blackened ribs of old timbers | wrecked boats of entire lives | The cuckoo’s call | woos and echoes | velvet among the steepening woods | our children | come to a muddled halt | morsels of mystery blossoming in their widened eyes | at the bend, where the river slows, and the current | is impeded by the bodies of several dead horses


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

The last warm day of autumn | What follows? | A dry voice in a background, on the phone | “I’m sorry it’s been so hectic over the past few weeks” | The heights | Tsvetaeva, perhaps with coral, perhaps with crows | Or was it an opal, I forget… | An unrepentant beauty | Luscious for mouth and ear, carnelian, sea, beach… | An assault: I would say, “an endless assault”, to take | the heights | Weary old voices: “No, it’s impossible” | “Foolish fantasy” | “Incompatible” | Dry voices, with a taste of dust from ivy stems, their truths | nothing of serpents or milk | nothing of the last warmth of the last | warm day of autumn | And reasons the heights | fall | laid out, as calm and inert as cuff-links | on a walnut dresser | early in the winter evening

Huddled | perfectly | the repose | of a yolk in an egg | Mist is taking green into its silver again | “If you move at all, I’ll break” | Move an inch | A millimetre | A breath, a moment… | In a young boy’s blood | girls begin to flow differently | “A delicate stage”, the adults | say, but what | do we know? | It is not like the sea | The sea wants no end to our glance, to its darkness | You bring me | such darkness, such distance from | any carnelian, such | an end | Repenting beauty | noting at night-fall, as I change for the evening | taking out the pearl | cuff-links you didn’t | give me | that my neck hurts


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Your sleep from change | eternity | So, the ladder of a day, a long, long climb | Raw violets in your eyes | impossible to grasp, not by | the New York unit, the | aerial unit | The night, hidden within | that greater, that | endless night | still has its oceans | though habit makes a | teaspoon chime | on a teacup’s side, and the dream | within | a typhoon threatening… | Alone, I | wrap you in a cloth of thought | these pockets of a warmer clime | on iced coasts | palms and lemon trees isle | green into the snow and grey | basalt of a sterner time | And when I watch you | close your eyes | hear the slow beat of the waves | latched into our rapid bloods | we have these hours to | change the stars | tilt them or convince them | otherwise | They have their role | Gods have their | stillness, we | our fickle living | one game, one rule, but then | a broken rule, another game, always | the fragile violence | the seasons’ call | To all, we bring divergence | take an ignorance to the wall | in this | evade or deserve | high summer’s blame | the latest | final word | We know no difference | Death is | exactly the same


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Always approaching, but simultaneously moving away, she couldn’t quite make sense of it | and the only way she could resolve its mystery was to say | “Oh, it’s over”, and to think of something else | She thought: It’s a cold day, so snow forms and falls || She wasn’t satisfied and, at that time, the nature of her dissatisfaction had the essential vulnerability of a living heart, which could never linger over a beat, or it would stop; it was also like a piece of music, which must go on, or else, in an instant, turn to silence

It’s a cold day, so snow forms and falls | Out in the country, the world will get hushed as the snow lies | The wind will drop, it will grow very still, and under the blue sky, in the quietness, the landscape will seem to achieve a kind of perfection | They say it’s very difficult to find two snowflakes that are exactly the same | Aren’t they like moments?


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Cracks appearing in the face of God, and cracks in His hands where plants creep through | A vivid silence before the wings | open, a dove | whisks flight from raw labour, a mind | beats concepts from the edge | of a nap, animals | fleeing the oasis when a shadow | appears on the ground among them | Histories of important errors | Mistakes that shaped a generation | a genealogy of detours to | a mislaid route, an abandoned journey | Waterbirds and waterbeads | Ahead in time, other people are waking in my night | and out of the hollowed | carcases of angels | baby stars | crawl and cry | how they plead | to fall into the knowledge | we may have of them | Rationing our chances | stuffing spring | into our winter corners | pockets | of dereliction | we call the axioms | or Sparta or Rhodes | an entire volume | of lore or rules or codes | the zenith | the kingpin’s | grenades | the apex | the much ado | the dog’s true | diamond bollocks | missed in the flutter of a motion detector | Somesuch notion | Not anything

Putting down the Venice of the Doge, the war for lost liberties | a ladybird upon your coat sleeve | A glitch in the moon | “Although nobody asks to be born, many ask to die” | does that | come here? | or later? | or not | at all? | Our | affair | Lashed together on the ropes of dark glances, lovers | climbing a mountain, but no, really, climbing hours, and not anything | they think otherwise | In other words | a different synopsis | a separate agenda | Moments of vision | torn and foxed | the paper yellowing | Delirium near the summit | strangers walking among our party | and the snow | whisked to bliss and near | oblivion | The truth is a loneliness | a failure | inadequacy | The truth is a lady, a boat | trip down a secluded | river in summer, 1896 | But mostly, yes, failure | Add distance, fakery, fuzz… | A child, separated from the caravanserai | in a dust storm | taken by bandits or sheer | indifference | Not recorded | Never opened | Boredom and a memory of woods | on a freighter near Betelgeuse | Chapter 7: The Ladybird and the Sleeve, Again | Your lips, are you | sleeping? | Setting out on the Silk Road | Samarkand | What war makes of the bombed-out churches | where once the Lord | awaited virgins | and hours appointed | for communion | arrived | Picking up Frankenstein


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)